Words and That - Issue 17

WORDS and ThAT

STOP this is the prefects’ path POems prose Paraphernalia

Issue 17

intro •

Editorial

W

e are easily distracted people.

Distracted by the sensationalism of American politics, the divisions stoked by the EU debate, or perhaps the Oscars debacle. With such an array of dizzying distractions coming at you from all angles, you might not have heard the news which came out of the ESA last week.

Scientists working across the world in over 90 countries, (12 of which are still openly at war with each other, incidentally) have pooled results and determined that the ice-mineral composition found in a handful of asteroids in the belt between Jupiter and Mars is remarkably similar to that of watermineral composition in the early Earth. This is the clearest indication yet that Earth’s life-facilitating water originated from collisions in its early history.

Now, it’s estimated that around 80 collisions with water-layden asteroids such as those we have studied would be required to cover 70% of the Earth’s surface with water, as it is today. Many more, and there would be no land. Many fewer, no oceans. Take a moment to consider our bewildering fortune, then, that just enough collisions were made for mankind to emerge as we see it today.

This magazine isn’t a scientific one (collectively between the writers we struggle to turn a computer on at times) but we do like to remind you to put everything in perspective, whether it’s exams, politics, or just the general trappings of life preoccupying you.

In this edition you’ll find yet more school satire (because that spring never dries up), more poems than you can chuck a GCSE English Lit exam at, and everything else in between.

Hugs and kisses, The Words and That Soviet

school •

Joining Words and That

W

ednesday afternoon. Tutor Period. Decision time. The time when I choose my activity for the coming term. As an ex-rower this decision has never been so difficult. Gone are the days of mindlessly signing up to go mindlessly up and down a smelly stretch of river, mindlessly erg (followed swiftly by mindlessly vomiting) all whilst flaunting my mindlessly large quads wrapped in mindlessly tight, cerise lycra. Hot. But alas, that lifestyle was not for me and I am now forced to venture back into the unknown, much like in rowing come to think of it. However, in this race the only pain comes from the potential for social interaction. I glance down the list, highlighter in hand ready to select the most appealing options. Nothing.

New tactic. Eliminate the worst. Having removed all activities for which I am ineligible, either due to them not being an option for L6 or requiring the talent and motivation to perform sport, I am quickly narrowing down my options. The fog of miscellaneous sporting clubs and Mr Dempsey’s insect-related hobbies disperses and that is when I see it.: Words and That. At first the option seems counter-intuitive. I do Physics and Further Maths, subjects based on the premise of minimising written word usage. But on further inspection I feel I could be perfectly suited for the task. If all that is required is a few words, as the name would suggest, then my skills should be perfect for I possess not one, but two entire English GCSEs. If anything ,I am overqualified: “The following metaphor/simile/image/other literary device ‘__insert_quotation_here__’ is significant/moving/powerful/other interesting adjective because/due to the fact/for the reason that it develops sympathy/shows character development/is symbolic/builds conflict/ juxtaposition, pathos, tension, atmosphere, tone, mood, atmosphere, tone, mood, juxtaposition… (repeat ad nauseam).”

One and two quick and simple GCSEs thank you very much. If only Physics was as formulaic as that. Feeling highly confident with myself, arguably more confident than a socially awkward nerd such as myself should be able to feel, I sign myself up and begin my life of literary acclaim, fame and fortune.

Aaarrghh. What have I done?!?! What have I signed myself up to? I knew from the moment I entered the room that I did not belong. This is no place for some nerdy maths student. The people here are totally unlike those of The Yang. These are the sort of people who prance between Philosophy and English lessons: Ernest Hemingway novel in one hand, Starbucks coffee in the other (I hear the English Department has plans to open a new branch in B13), cashmere scarf wafted across the left shoulder all whilst discussing, appreciating and ruminating on culture. They can probably detect the odour of The Yang on my clothes and if not then certainly they smell my

fear. Perhaps my lack of Starbucks has unsettled them. I quickly hide myself in a corner of the room trying my best to come off as both invisible yet also visibly literary. I fail.

I am still struggling to maintain this façade when the supervising teacher approaches me. The game is up. She has come to send me away back to my life of uncultured mathematics and bland nerdishness. I see my life flash before my eyes, noting my total lack of writing experience, but of course even that is an overused cliché or as these paragons of all things cultured would probably say - cliché (klee-chaît). But wait. What’s that? She only wants to do a register. I’ve done it. My entry was a success. But now I must integrate fully. I must become one of them.

One Week Later...

Greetings Dear Reader, Fellow Enjoyer Of All Literature Pre21st Century. As You Can See I Am Very Different From When We Last Met. Gone Is The Nerdy Loser Of Yesterweek. Here Is The Cultured, Refined, Scholarly, Enlightened, Erudite Man of Today - Now With Access To A Thesaurus. My Decision To Become A Full Member Of Words And That Has Been A Total Success. After The Obvious Steps Of Switching My A-Level Courses To English Literature, Philosophy And Art Other Aspects Of My Previous Life Have Adapted Very Nicely. My Shelves Where Once Were My Star Trek Box Set Now House Dusty Shakespearean Tomes; Beethoven, Mozart And Bach Now Make Up My Musical Tastes And I Even Find Myself Entering School Each Morning With Fresh Starbucks Coffee In Hand. God Knows Where It Comes From. In Short, I Have No Regrets. My Engraved Fountain Pen that My Parents Got Me For Christmas Will Carry Me Through English A Level Where My Capacity To Understand Either Prose Or Poetry Totally Fails Me. The Dust Accumulating On Those Unread And Unreadable Books Will Improve My Asthma No End And Nothing Makes Up For A Lack Of Philosophical Understanding Quite Like Drinking Starbucks And Holding A Large, Open Book.

I Am Destined For Greatness Dear Reader And It Has Been An Offer To Share The Beginning Of My Journey With You. Perhaps One Day We May Meet Again If I Am Successful In Rising Above The Competition And Claiming My Own Job At Starbucks - The One Line Of Work I Will Be Qualified For.

school •

French Exchange Itinerary Saturday

11:30: You wake up, drooling over your pillow. Amelie is bending over your pillow, and has been since she woke up at 9:00.

She looks like she has spent a week getting ready. You look like a moonscape with hair on.

12:30: You decide to make her a lovely English breakfast. All you can offer is a bowl of sugar puffs. Without the milk.

13:30: Take her to London. Once she has recovered from the shock at realising the train workers aren’t on strike, she shrugs and gets on the train.

16:00: Family leave the pub. Mum is 8:30: Tutor period. Other members of 15:30: You both get kicked off the train crying. Dad is missing. No one has paid tutor group stare at her in silence. because she was smoking. You walk to the bill. Amelie goes off to have a smoke.

London.

9:00: Lessons start.

17:00: Family have all gone to bed. You 17:30: Everything is closed. All you are left alone downstairs with Amelie and 10:45: Break time. Can’t find Amelie. can do is take her to Trafalgar Square suggest a game of chess.

She’s behind the science centre, smoking and laugh at her country. You start on a with the ground staff. Drag her to your network of buses to get home, and take 19:00: You lose seven games of chess in lessons. her cigarettes away first. a row, and can no longer see the board through the tobacco smoke.

13:00: Go into lunch. She finds her 21:00: You get home. You go to bed, French friends and sits with them. You leaving Amelie smoking in your kitchen. 20:00: Make some vague excuse about realise that this is the happiest you have being tired and go to bed, leaving Amelie ever seen her, and decide to sit with your on Facetime with some good looking guy real friends. They laugh at you.

Sunday 12:00: You wake up, and for some called Pierre. He is smoking and wearing reason you’re the wrong way round in a hat.

14:30: More lessons. You don’t know the bed. Amelie is sitting in the corner of where Amelie is. You don’t care. your room, smoking and reading Camus. Monday 6:00: Alarm goes off. You look worse 16:00: Other Half. Still can’t find Amelie.

12:30: Recovering from an asthma than you feel, and you feel like muck. She turns up halfway through with attack, you forget breakfast. You decide You go downstairs and Amelie has made someone in the year above. They sit you an your family should go to an crepes. You refuse to eat them out of together at the back. principle, and make yourself toast.

English pub for lunch.

17:00: Stay behind for a ‘party’ in the 13:00: You and your family walk into the 6:10: You burn the toast and steal one cafeteria to make the French people of the defective crepes out of the bin. It think we’re more interesting than we are. otherwise empty Conifer and Dragon. tastes like heaven.

You speak to no one who isn’t British.

15:00: Your family are having an And you have a lovely time. argument, your mother is threatening 6:40: You get on the bus. Amelie sits two divorce. Your brother is in the bathroom rows behind you on the opposite side of 18:00: The French people leave on a being ill. Amelie is unhappily pushing a the aisle, and flirts with the people in the bus. You see her happy smiling face as large chunk of meat around her plate, year above. You talk to yourself. she gets on the bus to leave, and you do looking gloomy. not care.

fiction • Parasite

I

n the fading dusk light, the contours of his face threw shadows across his jaw and brow; but nevertheless, he could clearly see the bulging, pulsating vein that slowly undulated across his entire forehead. Bulging, in some places nearly dangling out of his skin, it sent faint tremors of pain into his head with every single pulse.

A month ago, it had been merely a frown line on an otherwise unmarked brow; now, he feared to lean forward - he suffered from some paranoia that it might fall off his head. It had morphed - or rather, grown - into a grotesque, blueish-green bulge that shivered and writhed and jiggled when touched.

As it slowly pulsed again on his forehead, he suddenly realized what he’d never noticed before - the vein’s pulse was severely out of pace with his heartbeat. Squinting at the glass, he confirmed it. For every two beats - maybe two and a half, even - the vein would only slowly pulse once. Hesitantly, he reached up to confirm it by the touch of his hand; perhaps this was but a trick of the fading light. But no; it was definitely true. That vein moved but sluggishly, and seemed to… undulate, rather than pulse.

As he frowned, he felt a sudden series of rapid pulses. Squinting into the mirror, he watched as the vein seemed to squiggle across his forehead; almost, he realized, like a caterpillar - or a tapeworm.

For one moment he stared, stupefied, as the vein crawled, closer and closer to his right eye. Then with a violent motion he sprung into action; grabbing, pinching the vein between his two fingers as best as he could. But it wasn’t working; it continued to slip through his grip and slither further and further behind his eye. He could feel it, now - a dull, bulging pain in the back of his right eye, and a thundering headache that seemed to pound into his head.

In desperation more than anything, he curled his hand into a fist and pounded it into his forehead with all his force; but it was too late.

The only noticeable effect was to give himself a ringing headache as he leaned over the counter.

He needed an ambulance, now. Stumbling towards his phone, he grabbed it with a shaking hand and returned to the mirror even as he dialed.

“What’s your emergency?”

“Medical emergency,” he almost shouted, barely keeping in control as his vision seemed to distort through his right eye; a black spot of some sorts had appeared in his vision, like a pestering fly in the mirror that winked in and out of existence as he blinked.

“Please remain calm; this will only take a moment.” The sound of keystrokes; then, “And your location, postcode?”

“ID596BD”. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead: was his eye pulsing, or was that his imagination?

“Please hold on.” Her tone had changed, but in his distress he didn’t notice. “Your call is being re-routed.” That got his attention, and quickly.

“Wait. Wait, wait!” He shouted. This was ridiculous. All those

years of taxpayers’ money for this. “You can’t just - “ He was too late.

Cursing, he stared into the mirror again. By now, his right eye had lost almost all of its vision. Blurs of black and … red. Squinting with his other eye, he realized that his right eye was covered in blood vessels.

As he watched, they seemed to burst right before his view, miniature tears of blood running all the way down the whites.

He had to do something. The call wasn’t coming back. Cursing, he stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a spoon, half running, half stumbling back in front of the mirror. For a moment, his hand shivered, indecisive, the spoon hovering at the edge of his eye.

Then he plunged it in, grinding his teeth so hard against the pain that he swore he heard a crack. Somewhere far away, he thought he might have heard a voice - stop, please stop, this won’t help. Breathing rapidly, he ignored it. The worm was still there, inside. He could kill it now. He had to; it was getting deeper and deeper into his head. He could hear it in his head.

With one hand, he grabbed the base of the spoon like a chisel. Curling his other hand into a fist, he mashed it into the end of the spoon once, twice, thrice. With a yell he grabbed what was left of the handle and ripped the entire thing from his face.

A burst of blood dribbled merrily down the mirror. Cursing, he rubbed at it desperately before violently wrenching the taps on and splashing water onto the entire thing with his hands. His hands, he couldn’t help but notice, were cut and bruised all over - and the spoon, flung to the floor, had been bent in the depths of his violence.

Breathing deeply, he stared into the mirror - at the bloody hole where his eye used to be, at the streams of blood that ran down the empty socket. Stretching it open with both hands, he inspected the wound - nothing wriggling in there.

Then, on the floor. He finally saw it. A gigantic, wriggling tapeworm wriggling into the shower drain even as he looked.

With a shout he started after it, but it was too late - his scrabbling, shivering fingers merely pushed it into the depths of the city sewer system.

Breathing heavily, he stared at the hole, barely recognizing the voice on the phone as such. “Sir, are you alright? Are you still there? We’ll be around in 10 minutes.”

With a deep breath, he placed a hand over his eye and began to stop the bleeding by compression. Sitting weakly on top of the toilet, he caught himself nodding off once, twice…

The victim was found dead sitting on the toilet; there are indications that he’d experienced a heavy blow to the head, but the lethal weapon appears to be a spoon applied with great force to the victim’s face. Logs of the call indicate that the victim appeared to be initially calm and lucid while reporting a medical emergency, but became silent and unresponsive right after reporting his location.

The murderer is assumed to be still at large.

school •

Coach of Dreams - An Ode it’s been a wild ride. And though occasionally I get a dramatic bus journey, when we’re four hours late, overshoot the bus stop or have to take a risky diversion through Stadhampton, it’s the hard graft that means that I will never walk onto a bus in the same way again.

I

t’s been a long slog for me. I have been at this school from September 2012; it is now the spring of 2017. I have taken the bus there, then the bus back, almost every single one of those days. Add to this the fact that my old school route followed almost the exact same route that I take today, and I took the bus there from 2007. Over ten years, I have been driven up and down this road 4,180 times. Every journey takes about forty five minutes. One hundred and eighty-eight thousand, one hundred minutes. Or just over a third of a year. And I love it.

I have read a whole library of books, learnt all the Latin vocab and hurried off a couple of essays. I have never done a learning prep at home - ‘no, I’ll just do it on the bus’. Happy times. I have sometimes decided to while away my journey listening to music, sometimes I forget my charger. Sometimes I look out the window and the interplay of the music and the landscape allows me to spend a few minutes pretending to be in a music video. I listen to Heart radio and sing quietly to myself.

Take a sip of my secret potion I’ll make you fall in love For a spell that can’t be broken One drop should be enough Boy, you belong to me I got the recipe And it’s called Black Magic. (And it’s called Black Magi-i-ic) A boy on the row behind me hums the melody. It’s a special moment.

For magic environment it is. I can speak with people in my year. I can speak with people in the year above, until they decide they’re sick of me and start ignoring my overtures. I can speak with people in the year below, until I decide I’m sick of them and start ignoring their overtures. I probably get most of my conversation every day in the bus. It isn’t much, but it’s nice. If school is a place where you are made a better person through forced social interaction, the bus is the crucible where this happens. The forty five minutes, twice a day, in which I have grown up. One day I got on the bus a third year, and then - like a magic trick - I stepped off as a sixth former. And

‘What? You mean I have to pay? Like, actual money?!’

So there I am showing parents round. It’s been a long tour as they have insisted on speaking with more or less every bloody student we met.

I’m eating into my precious lesson time and we’re only in DT. Time is speeding past me and I can only watch as they scrutinise the power tools and hacksaws. I feel like I’m in Das Boot. It was at this point that the question hit me; like a depth charge.

‘So, do you take the bus?’

He sounds a little bit like a bloodhound.

‘Me? Yes. I always have, since…’ I don’t finish. Since forever.

‘You like it?’

I smile. ‘I tolerate it.’

And then, the depth charge.

‘Are there many women on your bus?’

Ah yes, I feel a wave of sentimentality and half-remembered 3rd year fantasties wash over me. That moment when I found out that the bus service was joint. That moment when I thought that I, even I, might be able to talk to women. And they will have to talk to me, even they will be literally strapped into place - aren’t seat belts a wonderful thing?

I remember walking onto the bus for the first time. And I can confirm that there were - indeed - women of my age on my bus. Probably the first I had seen since nursery. And now I had all the rest of my school career with them, every morning, every evening. And this was why I decided that that morning in particular I was not prepared to instigate a conversation with them using one of my risque icebreakers, like:

‘Hello, what’s your name?’

‘Hello, how was your summer?’

‘Hello, is this seat taken?’

But these would naturally be too daring, and so I decided to put them off for tomorrow and sat in silence.

This continued the next day.

And for the next few years.

And suddenly all the women on my bus had learnt to drive and left.

And now I’m the only one in my year still on my bus, because I drive like I make small talk. Embarrassingly, awkwardly and with unexplained veering.

So were there women on my bus?

Oh yes, more than enough.’

He smiles. It’s a bit creepy. Like being winked at by a binman.

‘Oh good. Jamie will be pleased when I tell him.’

He will be. But not for long. But it will do him a lot of good anyway.

culture •

Top Ten Childhood Nostalgia TV Shows

T

hey made us laugh, they made us cry, and they distracted us while our parents downed a bottle of the good stuff. The children’s TV of yesteryear holds a special place in our hearts, somewhere between rose-tinted nostalgia and awkward-memory related terror. And for that reason - because we suppress so many things from those formative years - these programmes can wind up buried beneath piles of psychological trauma, early romances, and things you’d rather forget about your parents. So, just to dredge some of that up, we’ve collected the trigger phrases from your top ten childhood tv shows.

STORYMAKERS Who makes stories when the day is through?

Storymakers, storymakers, working through the night till the rising sun, storymakers, storymakers, stories are fabulous, stories are fun…

It’s midnight in the library…

The sun is down, the stars are bright, storymakers come out at night!

Dawn is upon us, the morning is nigh, we’ve made our stories, and we bid you goodbye!

64 ZOO LANE 64 64 64 zoo lane, 64 64 64 zoo lane There’s one with a hump And one who can jump And one who is - well, a little bit plump.

BRUM Brum Brum, gets things done Super-cruisin’ super hero Brum Brum, here he comes Brum Brum, gets things done Super cruisin’ super hero Brum Brum, here he comes Way to go, Brum!

COME OUTSIDE Look up, look down, look all around.

Up in the air or on the ground.

Come for a walk, come for a ride, There’s so much to see, so come outside!

BAlAMORY Balamory! Balamory!

What’s the story in Balamory, wouldn’t you like to know?

What’s the story in Balamory, where would you like to go?

ART ATTACK Badum ba badum ba badum dum dum.

Da dum da daaa dadadum da da da dumm Da dada dum da daa Dadada - burr burr burr

RAVEN Muny yurs ago, thu son hud behind the mun, und sux strunge sumbuls wur foorjd frum goord, culled un wuter frum oor deepust vult, and wun thu lust subul wus cumpited, soorcureh feeneleh retuurned to thes shoors.

Thu trees und ruvurs spurkled wuns moor und sun a voile shudow roose to sprud musury thru-oot thu lund.Und oonli wun hoo communds thu spuruts uff truth und vu-too hoo cun dufoot thu duck fusses soo unwuttunglu rulused. Ma noom uss Ruvun!

THE KOALA BROTHERS If you’re in trouble and you need someone to help you out, There’s no need to whistle and there’s no need to shout.

Hey hey hey help is on its way Call the koala brothers Call the koala brothers etc.

DICK AND DOM Wake up Dick and Dom and get out of bed, Get yourself dressed, there’s a crazy day ahead.

There’s a million things to do and lots of people to meet, In da bungalow and on the street.

Go go Dick and Dom (in da bungalow) Go go Dick and Dom LITTLE ROBOTS Little robots Little robots Under a pile of scrap, There lay a little chap.

He had a broken arm but he made it good, And fixed his friends like robots should.

Little robots (little robots) Little robots (little robots) There’s Tiny, Messy, Sporty, Stretchy, Rusty, Stripy, Noisy, Spotty, Scary (oahh) Flappy the Bat, Sparky twins (that’s us) that’s that.

Little robots (little robots) Little robots (little robots)

fiction •

A Most Literary Inner Dialogue A most literary inner dialogue “What the hell is that?”

“What do you mean?”

“That title. What is it?”

“It’s the title for our piece of writing.”

“Well, firstly, you misspelt pretentious and, secondly, what piece of writing?”

“Don’t be rude. This is the piece of writing for Words and That, remember?”

“Oh that thing. Why did we sign up to that again? You know we’re awful at writing.”

“We had to pick some kind of Wednesday activity. It’s compulsory.”

“Well what was wrong with The Martlet?”

“Haha honestly? You’re hilarious. ‘What’s wrong with The Martlet?!?!?’ You must be joking, surely?”

“No I’m serious. Why not the Martlet?

“Not an option on Wednesdays.”

“Ah that’s a shame. But there must have been other options.”

“There was the Abingdonian but Archie said it was boring and dull.”

“Actually I believe he said it was ‘more serious’.”

“Same thing. Anyway, it’s decided now, so we have bigger problems to worry about.”

“Ah yes, this piece of writing we’ve been told to do. So what exactly are we writing about?”

“Well the teacher suggested writing a short story. Perhaps something seasonal.”

“Yes I remember. We came up with a rather good idea for a short story, didn’t we?”

“Absolutely, a work of genius.”

“Well we better get started on it.”

“Unfortunately there is one small problem. The idea’s crap.”

“Wait that was my idea.”

“Yes but I’m the artistic one and I say it was crap.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re always right. If it were up to you we’d probably still be studying English Literature and we both know that’s not a proper subject.”

“Well thank God we managed to pick ‘proper’ subjects like Psychology!”

“Ok, point taken, but we still need a piece of writing for next week.”

“That’s why I’ve taken the initiative to type all of this up.”

“What I thought the teacher said a short story though?”

“She was very vague.”

“No I don’t really think that…”

“Shhhh. I have artistic licence and I say she was vague.”

“Well, we still haven’t written enough. 500 words was the recommended length. We’re nowhere near that.”

“Ah but you see, my friend, this arbitrary ideal of 500 words conflicts with my own innate sense of pure literary minimalism thus preventing the truest self-expression via a form of writing that more fully…”

“STOP. This isn’t GCSE English Literature. You can’t spew out a page of nonsense and hope to impress people. And I won’t allow you to ramble on like that just to hit 500 words.”

“But we can’t turn up with something less than 500 words long. What would everyone think of us?”

“They don’t care. Sit in a corner they probably won’t even notice us.”

“Are you sure. Someone’s bound to spot us.”

“Of course not. Who’s going to spot another nerdy, socially awkward sixth former amongst those guys. We’ll be invisible.”

“Well as long as we manage to hit 500 words I’m happy.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Spaghetti, marmalade, 500.

She Knows She’s A Winner

poetry •

She knows she’s a winner She couldn’t be thinner Now she goes to the bathroom And vomits up dinner The Wronged To me you were the Earth entire, And if the sky had fallen from above, I would have pulled you through the world afire, Brotherhood bound not in blood, but forged of love.

Then you went and broke my world and plunged the blade into my back, So now the banners are unfurled, My heart shall your life ransack, Each beat a strike on the marching drum, Each breath a keen-fought battle.

Did you think I’d simply succumb, Like a baby with the rattle?

No, I shall turn your cities to dust, I shall bleed your armies dry, I will launch the war that is just, I shall make your coven cry.

For I shall sow the seeds of pain And in the dark web’s centre Covered in your life’s bloodstain, I shall be your great tormentor.

Like Frankenstein, you made a monster without control, A creature made of pain it could not bear.

Like Ozymandias, you built with no thought to soul, Now look upon your works, o mighty, and despair!

For I declare from this moment now, I will make you fear where’r you turn, For mercy shall you beg, bawl, and bow, Now it is your world that shall burn.

An Abingdon Love Poem I think that it is time, To come out from under the covers And into the open.

It’s not really a surprise, We have so much in common.

We both like to pick up girls, Yet can’t quite manage it.

We both want to grasp the moment, But it’s impossible. You Are the trusty companion Always by my side You, at least, Cannot escape me.

Antics II I am alone here now, In this vast place of nowhere.

That’s what this is to me now: An everlasting nightmare.

Nobody knows the weight I hold, Upon my feeble shoulders.

I feel as if every step I take, Follows a golden boulder.

Nobody knows the stress I feel, Against my humble brain.

This is my burden to bear And it can never be slain.

Nothing is the same as it was, At least not to me.

Nothing in my world is right; Nothing is as it should be.

What I want isn’t important, Nothing here is of worth.

The Earth has nothing for me And I’ve nothing for the Earth.

I’ve realised that Death is the only promise: A Righteous and All-powerful knight Who steals those plagued with emotion, Those people who see the dark in the light.

He will take us all eventually.

I cannot tell anyone of what I know.

And that is why I must be alone.

Lonely God When I was but a lonely god, Amongst the stars so far apart, Around the bed I softly trod, As you seized worn-out my heart.

You, named for the Gaelic north, For whom I fell at such a pace At first sight, from that day forth, I saw your soul upon your face.

From the rubble of the walls, From the fort to keep you out You toured each inch,the castle’s halls And caused my men to flee,to rout.

But now I wake from the dream I wove, For I knew it could not be.

But having gazed upon the face of Love, In my mind you are all I see.

I cannot remove this burning shod Even if I were but a lonely god.

comment •

Fixing the Grading System

A

s we all know, the system we use to grade our pupils today is broken in the most fundamental way; it cannot take into account that each of us is as individual as a snowflake, and as equally identical. There have been many ideas around this subject, as well as whether we should grade at all, as can any of us be simplified into a single letter? Four maybe, but one near the beginning of the alphabet? After all, who cares wghat I gat at GCSE English, i can still spel and right, so wot more could any1 want? I get my message across allright, so why should I care whether or not Frankenstein was in a relationship with his monster? Anyway, I digress.

For many of us, coursework is the dreaded behemoth that looms over our lives and sucks out all joy and replaces it with the crushing pressures of timelines, deadlines, and helplines. After all of the reading, the writing and most importantly the editing to produce your masterpiece, is it really so fair that all of that is subsumed into one letter that also takes into account your exams that test a fraction of your knowledge? I for one, would implement a system that rewards kindness, based on the number of pleases and thank yous per page of your work throughout the entire course. So what if that means that every piece of classwork, homework, and transcribed verbal conversation must be compiled into a mass of paper for every single one of the population that takes that subject? So what if to mark a single year’s worth of work would take as long as the First World War, and with as many casualties? At least no-one will be offended or their marks being unfairly compiled. In addition to this, there should be multiple letters per subject, so that if there is a bad time, it comes off as a blip. As a result, a new grading system might look like this: History: ANLOQ5 Biology: BHKUS8 Philosophy: DCAOR2

Now of course, each subject should have its own, unique, system, because each subject is unique, and yet also they are all equally valid, by the laws of the Honey- Liberal view, from Media Studies to Law. We might then have to produce a guide to the grades as long as the Old Testament, and equally confused, but then at least we wouldn’t be ruining anyone’s future, would we? Well, at least not as long as everyone in the entire world converts to our more complicated, expensive and meaningless method, anyway.

Exams in their current form need to be reformed as well, for while we must take care not to offend, we should also try to make the actual taking of them as easy as possible. For instance, why should people be forced to write exams and not allow everyone to type?

Not only would it remove the problem of segregating the dyslexics, but would also more accurately prepare us for the real world, because we inhabit the 21st century, not the 14th. Students will be striding forth into a world full of technology and computers, not one where you are going to have to write about the impacts of the James I’s financial decisions on the continent.

That brings me on to timing. Exams are an unnecessary limitation on the student. In real life, you will have several days to complete an assignment, with deadlines agreed far in advance, not forcing you to do all your working in a single sitting.

We shall be oppressed by the system no longer!

We shall put an end to this injustice! We shall be the resistance! The teaching class shall fear the students! Therefore, I declare this: Students of the world, unite!

You have nothing to lose but your chains!

fiction •

From Trafalgar to This?

T

here he stood, staring back at the hosts of tourists gathered beneath him, wondering just exactly where it all went wrong in the ‘green and pleasant land’.

For years, he had remained there through freezing winters, cold springs and ‘Indian’ summers, whatever they were, dressed in a cloak of dirt and bird excrement. Whatever the season, there remained one constant: the whinging of the public. Rain or shine, ‘I wish it was (insert weather condition here)’ or ‘Was it this (insert weather condition here) last year?’ drifted up to his perch. For hardly the first time, he wondered if even the roar of battle wouldn’t be preferable. Had the man who had won Britain the day at Trafalgar really been reduced to becoming a tourist attraction, stuck to the top of a column? Sometimes, he wondered if Napoleon hadn’t come out of this better a free trip to a tropical island couldn’t be as bad as this.

He really had no idea what a ‘Brexit’ was or why an orange man in a wig had control one of the colonies, but he knew it wasn’t good, and he knew he didn’t like it. Quite why Britain now wanted to stay close to the French, of all people, would forever elude him, particularly given that they had until recently been of the view that a bassett hound was the best choice of leader, and that the best choice of replacement thought that all the world’s ills could be blamed on a currency. Though given that this was a country that had once chosen a miniature Corsican with questionable fashion sense as the best choice to lead them into a new era as a world power, perhaps this wasn’t such a surprise.

Another flurry of flashbulbs from the so-called smartphones made him glance down once more into the gaggle of gawping faces. All the usual groups were representing themselves in force around the square. The groups of students with decidedly mixed levels of engagement, listening to somebody presumably even less engaged droning on about inconsequential facets of history. Had he retained a face of any description, a wry smile would have touched

his lips as he watched them being shown the other, far less interesting statues that littered what was, when all was said and done, his square. If the name wasn’t a giveaway, the fact he was the only one to have been given his very own column certainly was.

His attention turned from the busload of wittering tourists that had arrived to the home of the braying idiots by the Thames that, it disturbed him to know, were still running the country. From the woman whose bizarre smile would presumably outlast the crumbling justice system she was charged with maintaining to whoever it was that no one could remember but everyone knew was a mother, whatever relevance that had, he trusted none of them to take on the dishevelled fisherman that was leading this new Labour Party, especially not that blonde lunatic that had been seen as the best choice of representative that Britain could muster to the civilised world, perhaps only by merit of making everyone else look vaguely competent. He didn’t know what this meant either, but once again he knew it wasn’t to be trusted.

Still, nothing much had really changed in the past few years, at least not as far as he could tell, it wasn’t likely to start now.

Art

school •

The Arts and the Sciences

I

n response to the ongoing debate as to whether the Arts or the Sciences are harder, more interesting or just generally better, we decided to do an empirical test on the matter. This was largely inspired by David Hume and John Locke, instead of real scientists. Therefore we gave a selection of typical questions one might find on an A level Science paper and gave them to an Arts student. This is what they produced.

1. Explain how the voltage is shared between the components in a parallel circuit.

And the Lord looked down upon the circuit and said, “let the voltage be shared equally.” And so it was. The currents parted, and the charges, having wandered in the circuit for 40 days and 40 nights, saw that God was indeed good.

2. How does a buffer solution function?

Drink just enough alcohol to lose your ability to recognise that speaking to that girl you like is not a good idea, but not so much that your lose consciousness.

The alcohol in this manner acts as a social buffer, since any small changes in behaviour are minimised.

3. What can you judge about the compound sodium ethanoate from its mass spectrum?

Nobody should be judged by their mass. Sodium ethanoate is a real compound, with a real general formula, and real curves. Don’t objectify it with your male gaze.

4. Devise a hypothesis test on whether there is statistically significant evidence for girls winning more tennis matches than boys in this sample at the 5% level. State the conclusion.

The question is flawed, since it buys into the assumption that there are in fact only two genders which we know now to be wrong. I therefore am choosing to boycott this question, and any attempts to penalise me any marks shall surely be regarded as an act of discrimination. (My father is a lawyer, you know…)

5. Integrate e4xcosh2(3x) with respect to x.

I am pro integration, and show respect to all ethnicities.

6. Explain how phenotypic characteristics are transferred from one generation to their children.

When a mummy and daddy love each other very much, and socio-economic conditions permitting (and notwithstanding any existing political or racial prejudice - which you can see in my case study of Nigeria..).

7. A 75kg man is ice-skating, with a constant velocity of 5ms^-1, collides with a stationary woman of 60kg. Calculate their velocities immediately after the collision assuming that: i) the two people coalesce.

The result would be a minimum custodial sentence of 5 years, and sexual assault being placed on the man’s permanent criminal record.

8. Describe the establishment of an action potential in a nerve, and how impulses are sent through the human body.

I mean normally, I’m just lying in bed on a Saturday morning, after a massive night out. And then I try to stir my body into some kind of action, but to no avail.

My dad sometimes attempts to give me sufficient impulse to get up, but then I just turn over and pretend I’m still asleep.

school •

Letters From the Field Dear Mother, Thank you very much for your letter which I received this morning. It would probably be more convenient just to email me next time, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless. Rest assured, I am alive and well. Following the tryouts on Monday, I made it into the C squad which is fantastic because I’m now on the same team as Richard Markus, who I am aware that you don’t like because he is “deeply troubled” and “has the cold dead eyes of a killer”; but I have been assured that in Rugby that is often considered an unfair advantage. We are expected to face off against Cokethorpe this Saturday. Rest assured, we have been informed that the Cokethorpe Cs are an untrained dilapidated force and the outcome of the match should be decided by halftime. I hope to see you soon.

All my love, Martyn Dear Mother Oh dear God - the blood! I still have the plaster on my leg from where a stud tore through my flesh. I wish I could say that others fared better, but alas I cannot. Even those who weren’t critically wounded were still smothered and strangled in the mud. One boy fell into a particularly deep crater and had to drag himself free after becoming almost completely submerged. It was like that scene in Apocalypse Now when Martin Sheen comes out of the river except there was no Marlon Brando here which was probably for the best because he’s been dead for over a decade. Regardless, I’m told that we somehow beat Cokethorpe after a last minute try and conversion from Markus.

Therefore, the higher ups get to prance around and parade their false modesty as though they were the ones who single handedly stormed the enemy’s barricades (metaphorically speaking) and won us the match. It was all pointless of course: won, lost, what does it matter? We aren’t people, we’re statistics to be mumbled at Heads assembly and forgotten moments later and that’s all we will ever be; grains of salt through time’s great hourglass, for make no mistake, I am astronomically salty. We

have another game next weekend meaning another ninety minutes to throw our broken bodies at the enemy, except for Richard Markus who will probably get a couple more warnings for choking people. I guess I can always try to switch to rowing.

See you tonight hopefully.

All my love, Martyn Dear Mother I apologise in advance but this letter will be fairly brief on account of the fact that we are playing a match right now. Still, we’re 33-7 down; Richard’s been sent off and whilst the rest of the team are trying their hardest to look like they are trying, I’m at least being direct in not giving a damn. Besides, I have good news. I recently informed the higher ups that I had a strong desire to transfer from rugby to a less violent sport on account of various pacifist inclinations and the general dislike of being subject to the systematic slaughter of my fellow man. I’m transferring to rowing and my next letter should be sent from the peaceful confines of the river. I have to go now because Mr Evans is yelling at me and incidentally, the constant monotonous shrieks are another thing I shall be happy to leave behind. Okay, he’s coming over now, I should probably sign off. Goodbye mother and wish me luck!

All mDear Mother Goddamnit.

Martyn P.S Send more zinc plasters.

school •

An English Department Story

M

rs Bridgeworth entered B12 and strode purposefully into the room, surveying the assembled English teachers sat before her. Dropping a pile of unmarked essays on the table with a bang, she gathered everyone’s attention. She took her seat and looked around at her colleagues, all staring back attentively. Well, with the exception of Mr Davies of course.

“Meditation time is over now, Jonathan.” Mrs Bridgeworth frowned at the zen-like calm that was Mr Davies.

“And breathe in, 2, 3 ,4, … and out…,” Mr Davies eyes opened slowly and he smiled around at his colleagues. “It’s called mindfulness, actually.

It helps you to relax and control the stress of a busy work schedule. You see, the way it works does, in fact, use a form of meditation from the Far East but...”

“Yeah, yeah whatever.” Mrs Bridgeworth waved her hands in exasperation. “Time to get down to business. We have very important news to discuss for next year’s GCSE course.”

“We don’t still have to teach all that do we? Half of those students can’t even read Shakespeare let alone write about it. If it was my choice I’d have ditched my class long ago.”

“Yes Mr Swarbrick, everyone understands how you feel about those 5th years. We all have to put up with them. Pesky little brats.”

Mrs Bridgeworth glanced up towards the open door and saw one of her students peering sheepishly through the doorway.

“Oh.. Ben. Well of course I wasn’t talking about you. You’re an excellent student. Good job on that prep by the way,” she smiled enthusiastically.

“It’s James. And I was just coming to hand the prep in…”

“Ah yes of course.” Mrs Bridgeworth reached her hand out to take the essay. “Yes thank you. Very long I see. Five pages. Fantastic.” She remembered that Breaking Bad was on tonight. Oh well, whateverhis-name-is probably isn’t looking for overly detailed feedback. No, of course, that would probably just bore him, right? Her thoughts returned to the current meeting and she looked back up.

“Well, yes as I was saying we will have to continue teaching them; however, I do have good news.”

Mrs Bridgeworth paused for effect. “For next year’s course we will be dropping the Shakespeare in exchange for a new set text: ‘my very own twilight fanfic’ by joanna_unicorn. It’s modern literature. Really quite brilliant stuff; the boys will love it.”

“Oh that’s the new AQA course,” grinned Mrs Wigmore. “Such a great choice. Don’t you all just love these Twilight fanfictions?”

Around the table the various English teachers nodded in agreement.

“A really interesting new take on the gothic genre.”

“You know it was my daughter that introduced me to the genre.

Almost makes having kids worth it,” Mr Davies smiled to himself.

“You know I really think this particular fanfiction is an excellent one.”

“Well this joanna_unicorn is a rising star in this particular genre.

Apparently she’s branching into other fandoms as well. I hope she does some Potter stuff at some point too.”

More muttered agreement from the table.

Mr Swanwick opened up his laptop. “I think I may have a short extract from the text here actually. Let me just log in to my fanfiction. net account. Um, here we are:

Harry gazed up at those smouldering eyes. He felt helpless as Ron’s body pressed him down against the bed. Harry could feel the heat of Ron’s half naked torso, sense the tension and power in his toned abs and muscles.

“Please be gentle, Ron.” “Kiss me Harry.”

“Sorry wrong story. Just a bit of personal reading there. Haha, anyway... let me just open up the right one,” Mr Hindley had turned an interesting shade of red, “alright, here it is: I look over at Edward. He is very sparkly. I like the way he sparkles.

He is very sparkly because he is a vampire and vampires are very sparkly and that is why Edward is very sparkly like a sparkly diamond. I like the way the Edward sparkles because I like sparkly vampires.

“There’s just so much to analyse from such a short extract isn’t there.”

Mrs Wigmore nodded thoughtfully, “What really comes to my mind is the emotional impact of the repetition of ‘sparkly’.”

“I particularly noticed the diamond metaphor,” added Mr Evans.

Miss Vickers frowned to herself. “Don’t you mean the personification of the diamond?”

“No no it was most certainly a metaphor.” Mr Evans nodded sagely.

“Really? No the more I think about it the more certain I am that this is a perfect example of personification.” Miss Vickers gave a selfsatisfied smile.

Mr Evans frowned but was interrupted by Mr Davies before he could deliver a retort to Miss Vickers’ evidently barmy claims of diamondiferous personification.

“Well anyway, what we can all agree on,” said Mr Davies; “is how the author selects her language to create her effects. It really does add such a dramatic and powerful tone to the piece.”

“Ahem. Let’s not be too hasty there.”

“Do you disagree, Miss Williamson?”

“Well I wouldn’t quite have described it the way that you did.

To my mind the language creates more of a powerful and dramatic atmosphere. I don’t know what made you think it had a dramatic and powerful tone. No, I think it is quite evidently a powerful and dramatic atmosphere. Yes, that’s obviously the effect the author intended.” Miss Williamson smiled as she quite conclusively resolved the issue.

“Wait a second.” Mr Davies narrowed his eyes. ”Of course I’m not denying that the author intended it to be a powerful and dramatic atmosphere but it really does come across as more of a dramatic and powerful tone. Even if that is only subjective.”

“A subjectively powerful and dramatic atmosphere, perhaps,” dismissed Miss Williamson “Nonsense,” Mr Davies insisted. “If this isn’t a perfect example of anything but a dramatic and powerful tone then I…” “No actually you know what is nonsense? Your absurd notion of some sort of dramatic and powerful tone. Ridiculous. You agree with me right, Mark?” Miss Williamson glared at her colleague.

Mr Hindley cleared his throat to speak but did not meet her gaze.

“Well, um, he does, I suppose, have a point actually…”

Miss Williamson sneered back at the two men. “Hah you’re having a

laugh aren’t you? And you two call yourselves English teachers. If one of my students wrote ‘powerful and dramatic atmosphere’ on an essay I would put them in detention.”

“Well luckily for my students they have a teacher who can identify this extract as an example of a dramatic and powerful tone. Even in such a subjective subject as English it’s just so obvious here.”

“To hell with your subjectivity and your opinions.” Miss Williamson rose up to tower over Mr Davies. “Your students need a teacher that knows what they’re talking about. You can have as much mindfulness and white noise as you like but you’re going to struggle to drown out the sound of your own crap. Obviously there’s a powerful and dramatic atmosphere. Anyone with half a brain can see that much. Quite frankly, it’s an objective fact.”

“Yes! Hear, hear. An objective fact. Just like the objective fact that the diamond is a metaphor. And clearly not personification.” Mr Evans took the opportunity to return to his own personal issue of metaphors and personification.

“Ha!” Miss Vickers snorted in derision. “I think I know what I’m talking about here. As a university student I once made up an entire 12 page essay on the use of personification in Homer’s Odyssey. They hadn’t even invented personification back then!”

Miss Williamson butted in, “Um, I believe we were discussing the fact that Mr Davies here seems to be a totally incompetent English teacher.”

“Well that’s rich coming from you, Little Miss…”

“Both of you, for Christ’s sake, stop it.” Mrs Bridgeworth had to shout to be heard over the bitter rivals. “I hardly think that joanna_ unicorn would approve of all this. Can you not see that the true purpose of Twilight fanfictions is to spread love not hate, to heal the divisions between us not divide us further? The true moral of this fanfiction is that without love and without friendship we are nothing more than the vicious, animalistic and far less sparkly werewolves in this story. As English teachers it is our solemn duty to instill our students with the

same sense of love and companionship that bonded Bella and Edward in their sparkly love. We are the sparkly beacons of all that is good in this world and the world of Twilight fanfictions. If there cannot be love between us, fellow Twilight enthusiasts, then what hope is there for anyone?”

Silence followed as the English teachers looked around the table at each other. An immense realisation had fallen across them all. Because really it didn’t matter whether Edward’s sparkly skin had connotations of a dramatic and powerful tone or a powerful and dramatic atmosphere.

It didn’t even matter whether there were metaphors or personifications.

All that mattered was love.

Many Years Later...

Mrs Bridgeworth sat at her desk stirring her drink with the tea bag.

As she sat, waiting for her trusty old Abingdon laptop to switch on, she reminisced about her days teaching at that wonderful school.

Very kind of them to not chase her up about this laptop even after all this time. Yes, thinking about it, the time she spent at Abingdon had been the highlight of her career. Pushing forward the new Twilight fanfiction course had been revolutionary for the English department and once it had been adopted for the A level course English literature very quickly rose in popularity until 100% of the boys had opted for that A level course. After that it was only a matter of time until the Yang Science Centre was repurposed in the form of the Sparkly Vampire Centre for the study of Twilight and other Fandom Fanfictions. Generations of young men given the essential cultural and spiritual education that can only be gained from a Twilight fanfic. That joanna_unicorn really had been a gift to the literary world. And her stunning career in fanfics was far from over even after all this time. With a few keystrokes Mrs Bridgeworth logged in to fanfiction.net and read the familiar message on her screen: “Welcome back, joanna_unicorn”.

culture •

Sherloft and Mycock

‘I

love you.’

These words ended what may have been the most stressful few minutes of my life. I refer of course to Sherlock, more specifically to the scene where Sherlock, the cold and emotionless detective, had to get the woman whose affections he was emotionally unable to reciprocate, to say the words ‘I love you’. Or else the bomb under her flat would explode.

Yes, it’s ridiculous. Yes it’s twee. But my God was it good! It was so bloody good. I would like to challenge anyone who has seen the rest of the episodes to not be at least a little bit on the edge of their seats for that moment. The whole last episode was an insight into the characters we have lived with these past few years. So imagine my horror when I called a friend of mine the next day.

‘You see Sherlock?’

‘Yes, obviously. What did you think?’

‘Awful.’

For the first time since the end of the episode, my blood froze in my veins. In fact, the episode got completely slated from many quarters.

The whole series was divisive. An ‘annoying self parody’ (The Guardian). ‘A total damn mystery’ (AV Club). ‘Implausible comicbook fantasy’ (The Atlantic). The Independent criticised it for not being as ‘believable’ as the books. To which I say fine, good. The day I sit down to watch something that is totally believable will be a sad day indeed.

For this is what people do not appreciate in the same way any more. We pursue realism at all costs, and this is something I profoundly regret. I don’t know if you saw the remake of The Jungle Book - I have only just recovered from the shock. Imagine my horror, to see one of the films which defined my childhood, with the fun and charm and songs (!) surgically removed. When these films were made, greater realism was possible. Films like the original Tarzan films from the 30s proved that much. Kipling’s tales could very easily have been translated into live action when it was made in 1967. But this was not the point. The reason Disney made animated fairytales and children’s stories was because they were charming and the medium reflected that. No bear would dance with an orphaned Indian child and sing about ants (I’m sorry). But who really cares? It looks amazing, because it looks like nothing else.

So who decided that what was needed to improve the film was to make it more realistic? Reality: darker, bloodier, and less fun. To be

honest, I get enough of that at home.

So no. Sherlock was not realistic. Eurus and her mind control powers cannot exist in the real world. People you marry rarely turn out to be mercenary assassins. And you are not a high functioning sociopath, as edgy as you might want to be. You are not remarkable, you are not worth making a TV show about and random people are not going to drop into your house and ask you for help. If I wanted to watch something realistic, I’d go down into Abingdon and sit outside Poundland for an hour watching the world go by. But as it is, I can spend a couple of hours of my day trying to work out the logic of the latest installment of Sherlock. And if that is enough to make me forget myself for a bit, then I have been entertained. Reality is overrated, and Sherlock, most emphatically, is not.

Sherloft and Mycock - an upright response Fantastic. Isn’t it fantastic? The BBC and their accomplices have found another way to shove their nouveau, liberal attitudes right up where the sun don’t shine. I for one am going to write 6 to 7 strongly worded emails to people at crucial points in the company infrastructure and I encourage many more to follow suit.

Besides the undertones already expressed, I found the show to be far beyond reason. Of particular note was the mini drama of the girl alone in the plane. Is the public really supposed to believe that a small child would be given access to the first class cabin, violating the silent zone? Furthermore it demonstrates the BBC have no respect for upper class citizens; those people had the right to die in peace, less the running and screaming of the masses.

However I must praise them for their excellent use of tenement housing. The show demonstrated how even remote islands can provide excellent long term accommodation for those less fortunate.

There is no need to re-develop Knightsbridge again. Just move them onto Sherrinford.

And this brings me onto my climactic point - vision. The BBC has no end goal with their shows. Endless re-runs and adaptations. It makes me sick. I have seen far too much funding pour into safe shows, ones which have an established audience. There is such a culture of fear that reaches throughout the BBC, any poor judgement call is fatal due to such tight pressure on efficiency of turnover. Ironically this adherence to mediocrity only creates further criticism from those who felt the BBC froze in the early 2000’s.

fiction •

Abdel’s Amazing Adventure

A

man lay asleep on his bed. His life was plummeting down faster than anyone could account for. At the moment, the negatives of marriage outweighed the positives, at least in his eyes. Just the other day, his wife, heavily pregnant, rubbed chillies into his eyes.

This was not the true reason of Abdel’s sadness however; the real reason for this came from a recent event at work regarding him and his boss.

That morning, he had strolled into the office with a smile on his face, and his head held high. The meeting between him and his clients at HSBC went swimmingly, and a small loan of $1M could now be authorised. Later that day, Abdel’s boss called him into his office for a private talk which Abdel assumed meant ‘I’m promoting you’. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Abe, my friend! Well done on sealing the deal today, that was great work!” he said narrowing towards him, “Now, I’m going to propose something, and I’d prefer if you agreed to do it,” his boss said, anxiously, “Kill Avi Jeskewitz. Effective-immediately.”

Upon hearing those final words, Abdel almost collapsed. This was completely unprecedented. He didn’t think of anyone at his office as a killer, especially his boss.

“Sir, with all due respect, you’re crazy if you think I would do something like that. I am no killer,” exclaimed Abdel, aiming to assert dominance in the office, therefore making his boss reconsider his proposal.

“Avi is an evil man, Abdel. Nothing good has come from him, and all of his profits are ill-gotten. This is someone who deserves to die.”

This was absolutely not true - Avi made his money after years of hard work in many different fields, ranging from animation to banking to being a bouncer. He recently made a charity to which he donated a majority of his life savings. Abdel had never met the man, but these were all things he knew he would have to ignore. At this point, he couldn’t see a way out of this. His boss handed him a small revolver with only one bullet in the round.

“You know what to do,” said his boss rather sinisterly. Abdel stared blankly at his boss.

Abdel woke in a cold sweat at around midnight, his wife next to him.

He had a tear rolling down his cheek. After a few minutes of being sat up in his bed, Abdel walked to his kitchen to get a bite to eat. On his dining table, pictures of Avi were scrawled around with a note beside them saying ‘kill him - 29/05/29’. The date on the note was tomorrow. Taking a sip of warm milk and a bite of chocolate, Abdel began to make his way back to his bed. He lay down and cradled his wife. He knew there was no escape

from this, so he began devising a plan - what he would tell his wife, how he would cope with prison life, and how he would execute the execution.

Then he went back to sleep.

Once he woke, he put the gun in his coat pocket, and left the house. It was raining. Avi’s office was a fairly short walk from Abdel’s flat - around half an hour. He arrived at Avi’s office at around midday. As he walked up to the building, he saw Avi standing, waiting for his dog to return with the tennis ball he’d just thrown. Abdel had never considered that this side of Avi ever existed, but there he was. A man with his pet dog. Nothing more, nothing less. This completely changed his view of the man and now killing him was far more difficult, but still a task he would have to undertake.

He walked into the office and told the receptionist that he had a meeting with the man regarding his foundation - his boss told him to tell Avi that he wanted to make a ‘large’ donation.

After another 15 minutes of sitting in the waiting room, Avi came. The two entered a meeting room alone. Abdel was nervous, something that Avi noticed, and was slightly weary of. He knew Abdel was hiding, but his gut was telling him not to ask in case it was too personal - he was nice like that - so he let it go. For around forty five seconds.

“I’ve been playing around for too long, Avi,” exclaimed Abdel. His voice cracked twice, “I’m not afraid to do this… But it would be easier if you complied, please.”

“Abdel, what are you doing? I’ve heard things about you, and you’re a nice guy. There’s no need to… to kill me,” said Avi softly and calmly. The tension in this room was off the charts - neither one of these innocent men wanted to be in this room, but here they both were.

“You… Just, just stop talking! I have to do this, or… I don’t know what would happen to me, but nothing good I assume… So don’t make this harder than it already is!” Abdel was on the brink of tears. A few days ago, he was about to get a promotion, yet here he was throwing his life away.

He pointed the gun at Avi and held his fingers on the trigger. It was clear that Abdel had never held a gun before. Abdel was now considering the consequences of both outcomes - to kill or not to kill. It was either prison if he did, or perhaps death if he didn’t. There must have been a third option he could come up with, but in the heat of the moment Avi couldn’t string together anymore than he already had.

“I can vouch for you, if you don’t kill me that is… You’re clearly not doing this of your own accord.”

Abdel couldn’t hear a word over all the thoughts in his head.

So he put the gun to his head.

fiction • Approval

A

car pulls up in front of JAMES. JAMES AMIR: Could you wait until the traffic light AMIR: It is better than my colleagues have. I can make money here. checks his phone one last time and then and then drop it in please. leans his head down to the car window JAMES: … So, is this your last drive of the d…

JAMES: But you could go to a hospital and which has just been opened. work there or something?

Car slows to a pause.

JAMES: Über for James? 600 Adams Street?

AMIR: Not in my situation, sir.

AMIR: NOW SIR! JAMES: What you mean … oh. Right. You’re AMIR, the driver, nods his head once one of those … (voice trails off slightly as he AMIR leans his head back towards the passen- looks towards the floor).

JAMES: Okay … great. ger seat with his mouth open, JAMES clumsiJAMES gets into the car. JAMES is a 27 year ly puts the mint in his mouth moments before AMIR: Y…you, would not say anything? Would old, dressed in smart casual and smelling nota- AMIR whips his head back to the front of the you sir? Please. bly of aftershave. He has his hand over the front car and starts driving again.

JAMES: Err … (suddenly facing upwards as of his upper jacket, holding where his phone is in his pocket. AMIR looks roughly 40 and is AMIR: Thank you very much, I am sorry about though he is snapping out of his thoughts) No, definitely not. I will stay quiet. wearing a grey fleece jacket and has a black tur- rushing you. ban wrapped around his head. They drive in the AMIR: Thank you, James. black Toyota Prius, with AMIR focussing on the JAMES: It’s all good man. road whilst JAMES looks around the car.

JAMES has a mint himself.

Driving for another moment.

JAMES: So, how was your day?

AMIR: How is your cholesterol?

JAMES: So did they just let you in at the border? Well, I’m interested in your story. Like no Silence for several moments JAMES: What? checks, no questions?

AMIR: (with a thick Iranian accent) It was acAMIR: Your cholesterol is high, yes?

AMIR: James, I appreciate that you are a very ceptable. … Thank you. kind man, but there are some things which I JAMES:Yeah, how did you know? do not talk about. (AMIR is now sweating noThe car indicator ticks at the cross roads. ticeably).

AMIR: Just the basics, but mainly the way your JAMES: It’s got dark quite early tonight. hand was trembling, I have seen it in many pa- JAMES: Oh right, yeah. Yeah, I see. tients… (trails off ) No response.

AMIR: Thank you, thank you, thank you, s…

JAMES: What’s arrival time looking like then? JAMES: Right, well done, I guess. Erm, so you sorry know, I’m not in a rush this evening. We can go JAMES: That’s so bad though, you were a docPause, then a quiet sigh from AMIR as he looks slower, I mean you seem slightly tense. tor and now … on his phone.

AMIR: Just a lot of thoughts in my mind toAMIR: And she is not here! Ma nfran! She AMIR: Estimated time is eight plus forty, sir. night, sir. I will slow down for you. would have been next to me with our children Not too long.

JAMES: It’s not about speed, I just want you to and my brother and I would be with her but be fine. I’m James by the way. no!

JAMES: Yeah that’s not too bad, don’t worry.

They continue driving.

The car swerves abruptly as it turns left.

AMIR: Yes sir, I know. And my name is Amir. It JAMES: Dude. Calm down. Just breathe, and tells me so on this app. err talk to me about it.

JAMES: Sh--. Sorry, I mean woah. That was JAMES: Of course, sorry. sudden. It’s okay though. I’m fine.

AMIR: Have you used Über for not a while, sir?

AMIR: Sorry sir, sorry. I will be much careful.

JAMES No, I use it a bit, just, you forget sometimes.

JAMES: It’s okay man, it happens to us all.

AMIR: No I don’t, but I have not been using it Sorry about the language. for very long.

They continue in silence for some time.

JAMES: When did you start working for Über?

James reaches for his pocket.

JAMES: Here, would like a mint?

AMIR: Yes please sir, that is very kind of you.

JAMES: Hey don’t worry about it.

JAMES holds the mint in his fingers JAMES: How would you like me to do this?

AMIR: Seven months ago.

AMIR: We did not have the money. So we just got one ticket for me to travel here. I am here on my own.

JAMES: Has that changed?

AMIR: I had got the money, I had bought the tickets and all that was need to come here.

JAMES: Your family? They couldn’t …

AMIR: As they were in the AIR, your President announced his order. They were turned JAMES: Oh right, what did you do before then? away at the border and put on the next flight back.

AMIR: I was a paediatrician doctor.

JAMES: Well, you normally find a way through JAMES: No way?! Fu … sorry. But I mean, real- anyway. ly? You were a doctor and now you’re an Über driver?

AMIR: Not my family. I have worked simple

jobs on many times and then got the money while AMIR looks out to the road, squinting for them to fly here. Those tickets … it will be with many folds on his forehead. This continues months, and then when they come they could for some time. just be stopped again.

AMIR: We are here now, James.

AMIR has pulled the car into a layby and breathes slowly.

The car pulls up and JAMES looks out to see a house with lights on inside, music loudly comJAMES: Am… Amid? Let’s be calm. It will be ing out and FREYA, a late twenties blonde girl okay, you know. These politicians, they say standing outside on her phone. these things and people get riled up, but they don’t follow through and it turns out okay. I JAMES: That’s great. Listen pal, have a good am sure someone will get involved in this, your night. wife will get through eventually. It’s just going to take a bit of time okay. Look, people get by AMIR: James, you have been so kind to me tohere. I just met you but you seem like a great, night. I have a great debt to you. a great addition to America. Just calm yourself down and know that it’s all okay.

JAMES: Don’t worry, it’s just normal people.

FREYA: You seem tense, did he make you beg for it?

JAMES: Hey! Well not quite, but you know, he was kind of hard to be nice to.

FREYA: Come on, let’s go inside. (They start walking into the building). What do you mean?

Bit too whingy or something?

JAMES: Yeah, he was an Arab or something.

Illegal. Trying to get his wife in as well.

FREYA: Well it’s okay babe, because Trump is in, and people like him should be heading home soon. (She quickly kisses him again).

JAMES: Ha, yeah I guess so.

AMIR: Really? (looking up and towards the AMIR: Please, what can I do for you?

FREYA: What’s your rating now? back seat slightly) JAMES: Well, just give me a good rating I JAMES: 3.92 JAMES: Yes, you’ll be fine. guess, haha.

FREYA: Well it was worth it. Soon you’ll be on AMIR: That, that means nothing.

JAMES laughs, whilst AMIR chuckles slightly. 4 and get the proper drivers again.

JAMES: I know, but if it can’t work out, you JAMES: Goodnight then. (Opens door) have my contact details. I could help you out or something with money maybe.

FREYA looks up, sees JAMES and waves.

AMIR: No, really?

JAMES: I could see what I could do.

JAMES: It was tough though, having to go through that.

FREYA: (Laughs). Or you could just try being AMIR: Goodnight, kind sir. (JAMES has al- nice to your drivers. ready left the car at this point, and the door is JAMES: Okay, shut up now. heard to close on the word ‘sir’.)

AMIR: No one has been this kind to me yet; thank you James.

JAMES approaches FREYA outside the house FREYA: Sorry James. where the event is taking place.

JAMES: Now this place better have a decent JAMES: How about you start driving and try FREYA: Hey James, that took you a while. stock of drinks because I intend to get truly to not think about this. wasted tonight.

(Kisses him briefly). Did you get your five?

AMIR: Okay, I will try. Thank you again James.

AMIR drives away in his car, James checks his phone.

The car continues driving, JAMES takes out his phone, he has a curious expression, then smiles JAMES: Errm, yeah I did actually. Five stars. suddenly, nods and puts his phone away. Mean-

Scene shifts to AMIR driving in his car at night.

Gradually increasing, blurred, blue and red lights are shown flashing in the background.

Fade to black.

fiction •

Intergalactic Travel Guide for Adventurous Englishmen

T

his guide will aim to offer a few pointers to those brave and noble young men and women who seek now to expand the glorious boundaries of Her Majesty’s Empire into worlds alien, foreign, and quite possibly even occupied by unfortunates not yet elucidated as to the virtues of faster-than-light travel, magnetically accelerated ballistics, and tea. By following this guide, the enterprising and swashbuckling individual may avoid most harm to their own body and acquire with expedition the lands of others, for their own betterment and ours.

If one happens to encounter a local populace, it behooves one to be able to negotiate and trade with them without requiring their subjugation first. The following steps, taken promptly and with authority, will open up new markets for Watkinson-Watt-Watkinson Atomic Tea Cosies as well as perhaps earning you friendship (or at least passes for friendship amongst the uncivilised mass of the galactic natives).

1. Show the natives the necessary dignitaries Many a young adventurer has been killed or, even worse, mocked for failing to show tribal chieftains, clan matriarchs or School-Council Chairmen adequate respect. Although the odd combination of growling, chirping and retching noises produced by most primitives does not deserve a response in fine English, producing the suitable esoteric hand-gestures and obsequious bowing will go a long way to keeping them docile long enough for one to extract from them the unwritten title deeds to their ancestral lands.

tegrated into the greatest empire there has ever been, they actively rail against the prospect of free trade, gainful employment and afternoon tea. Wielding their primitive excuses for weaponry, they may wish to make some sort of example of one and one’s companions, as they express forcefully their displeasure at what is of course only the natural state of things, that is to say, that all things that do not yet belong to the British Empire ought to. It is thus profitable to charter a method of escape.

4. If all else fails, be prepared for a battle If one happens to be caught in such an unfortunate situation that escape becomes impossible, it makes sense to be prepared to defend one’s honour, commercial interests, and future property; thus one should always bring a detachment of Her Majesty’s men to any given tribal village, so that any hostilities be resolved summarily and efficiently. It has been of note to this author that denuding great stretches of planet of their fighting-age males induces a certain compliance in any given obstreperous gang of indigenous types.

5. Beware of marauding frenchmen Sadly, not all of that cursed people, the French, were quite wiped out during the Great Planetary War. You may, if you are very unfortunate, come across these creatures in your travels, intent as they are on spreading radical Republicanism, Socialism and suspiciously flavoured foodstuffs. You may detect a Frenchman by the lingering smell of garlic, tobacco, and disreputably soft cheese. You may also hear odd snorting noises; the accordion music which invariably accompanies his approach 2. Offer them minor gifts that dazzle them is not reliable because it can also indicate the presence of Fenians, who Tribal types are simple at heart, and it is best to recall that the alien are a substantially less serious threat than a Frenchman. When spotted, generally has the mental age of the average three-year-old (or a top set Frenchmen will wave their baguettes at you furiously and will hurl all Radlean). Thus they are easily impressed by chains of beads, goldfish, variety of detestable hors-d’oeuvres at you, including snails, the heads iPhones, and solid Sheffield-made cutlery. Small gifts such as these of- of the aristocracy, and their berets. In doing this, they aim to deter the fer the possibility of great remuneration later when you disabuse these approach of well-bred Englishmen; they shall, of course, fail, because natives of their precious metals, arable land, and nubile concubines.

Frenchmen always yield to being boxed around the ears or shot at. Nevertheless they are cunning and it may do well to cover the delicate ears 3. Ensure that you have an exit strategy of your servants so that their vile protestations of ‘Liberté, Egalité et FraIt has been observed by the author that far from being glad for being in- ternité’ do not influence them into being revolting.

fiction •

The Future Glory of the British Empire

“To think of these stars that you see overhead at night, these vast worlds which we can never reach. I would annex the planets if I could; I often think of that. It makes me sad to see them so clear and yet so far.”

- Cecil Rhodes, Imperialist, Businessman and Briton July 2016: After Britain’s monumental decision to leave the European Union, Her Majesty the Queen has spoken out in light of the recent turmoil to reassure the nation. During the statement she told the public everything was ‘Fine’ instructing her subjects to ‘Keep calm and carry on, as [they] always have’, reminding us of the nation’s former glory on the world stage, and that we were now in ‘A good position to give the colonists what for!’. The speech was then followed by a statement from Downing Street, laying out the Prime Minister’s ‘Road Map to Recolonisation’, marking the beginning of what some are calling ‘The British Imperial Resurgence”, pundits are saying that ‘This is the Beginning of a bright future on which the sun shall never set’.

The flood of statements was concluded with a word from the newly appointed Minister for Colonial Affairs, Michael Gove, on the challenges he’ll face in his new role. His maiden speech at the head of the reformed department focused entirely on Ireland, ‘The Prime Minister has instructed me, in my capacity as minister for Colonial Affairs, to carry out the violent and total eradication of republican elements within Ireland, and restore Her Majesty to her rightful place as Lord of Ireland.’ When questioned on future relations with the so called ‘United States of America’, he responded ‘screw that shamocracy’. The Minister was then charioted away from the conference to the sound of fife and drum.

Rule, Britannia July 2516: Today the Government announced that it had made contact with an alien life form. Supposedly the life form identifies as a “Trethladorox”. After being shown the light of Civilisation, the task undertaken by the most honourable East Solar Trading Company special branch, the creature seems to be preaching a hateful dogma against us, proclaiming that “We want you in pieces, we bring gifts of death and deviation”. We here at the Powle Gazette wish to inform the citizens of the Empire of the facts and only the facts, and the facts are these evil foreigners threaten our way of life.

We say, away with these barbaric aliens, it is our duty as brave Yeoman of the British Empire to find evil in the world and root it out and bring all of creation under our sway as the English God commands. Noble En-

glishmen, let not our homeland be swallowed up by the unstoppable tide of violent aliens, preaching a hateful ideology designed to destroy us and our noble history. So we call you to action, to arms, to war. Forward unto to victory, we will fight til’ we have sway from Charon to Centauri, we look to the stars now and we will have them, and we will Never Surrender.

Rule, Britannia… Britannia Rules the World July 2630: Breaking News: During the settlement of New Grimsby, Lord Stanley has discovered a race of 7 ft tall Orcish bipeds. These monstrosities have been found to have an average IQ of around 85, however their strength has been deemed useful to the cause. The slow and painful process of integrating these “Geordies” (named in honour of the ancient warrior race that protected English lands against the loathsome Scottish) has led to conflict with the more educated southern colonists leading to violent protest, such as strongly worded letters to the Governor.

Of course in true British fashion, we should all make efforts to conceal our intense hatred of all things foreign below a layer of self loathing and sarcasm. These beings, though worse than us shall have a place in our glorious dominion, if we can tolerate Americans we can tolerate a group of 7ft tall troglodytic morons Rule, Britannia… Britannia rules the savages July 3016: The Empire rejoices as we celebrate the 350th birthday of our glorious sovereign, Queen Britannia I. Governors and Vassals from across the Imperium have been invited to London to join her Majesty at the Royal Banquet. To honour the day, the First Sea Lord has ordered a temporary halt to the bombardment of the Tethladroaxian homeworld, and invited the Tethladore President to the proceedings in Britannia (have no fear, we expect Capitulation by next week).

In other news, the relocation of the French has finally been completed.

The arch enemy is very happy in their new home on a space station in the Andromeda Galaxy, where they can do no harm to the rest of us. The Germans have been repurposed to solely produce lager and our automobiles, and the Spanish have been abolished by an edict from the Chancery Office, being Spanish is now illegal as is being of Belgian descent, all in this situation should report to the nearest Lord-Lieutenant to be ‘Physically removed’ so to speak. The ‘Americans’ are to report to the Ministry of education for classes in common decency and manners.

Rule, Britannia… Britannia rules the stars

Which school tie should you wear?

Yes.

Have you ascended beyond these puny mortals?

Prefect Tie

Is Faringdon Lodge too far to walk?

No.

Yes.

House Tie

No.

Yes.

Do you want a special tie with no responsibilities?

House Prefect Tie

Are you on first name basis with Mr Hindley?

Colours Tie

No.

No.

Yes.

Have you achieved nothing in the past five years?

Sixth Form Tie

Are you subtly declaring your communist sympathies?

Yes.

Amey Theatre Tech Crew Tie

No.

No.

Yes.

Did you peak too soon?

Lower School Colours Tie

We really missed you in first orchestra today. Did you miss us?

Yes.

First Orchestra Tie

No.

No. Yes.

Does the rest of your year pity you?

School Council Tie

Smart enough to get the tie.

Dumb enough to wear it.

No.

What’s your annual salary in Yen?

Yes.

Yes.

Scholars Tie

No.

操你妈的多.

Borders’ Council Tie

Have you accepted you will never be a prefect?

Yes.

Croquet Tie

No.

Do you aspire to be Blake?

Yes.

Publications Tie

Was being an Abingdonian really the best thing to happen to you?

Yes.

OA Tie

Contributors Alex “Gandalf” Chapman Alex “Technically a Racist” Mannix Archie “It’s just a working title” Williams Blake “Axiom? Please?” Jones Chanka “Swaggybear” Pathinayake Edward “The Alt-Knight” Turner-Fussell Giles “Plushy” Stratton Hoi-San “Sauce” Woo Iwan “Milkybar Kid” Stone James “Girl Chirpser” Madeley James “Mole-Rat” Bowen

Jonah “Sky” Walker Jonny “Bravo” Hitchens Kit “Kat” Mannix Louis “Can’t get a bird” Brosnan Patrick “Don’t you, forget about me”

Gwillim Thomas Robbie “The Silence” Allen Sam “Wham bam thank you Sam” Farrar Suleman “Dolphin Killer” Irshad Thomas “Four eyes” Morris William “Can totally get a bird” Cope

Design and Editing: Blake Jones

Special Thanks To:

Mrs “that maiden name” Bridgeworth A quiet bellowing from the goat farm Mothership Vickers The Art Department